


Upon these wings of silk

by eldritcher



Series: The Song of Sunset Third Age [14]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-04-01 06:30:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4009432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eldritcher/pseuds/eldritcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There, in the field of a thousand poppies, standing underneath the sun-kissed skies, taunted coyly by the gentle breeze and caressed by silken wings, we embarked on our ultimate journey to happiness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Upon these wings of silk

“Exactly what I have always wanted to do!” 

The sun poured down its warmth on my skin, its rays permeating fluidly through the thin linen of my tunic. A gentle breeze whispered tidings of celebrations and pranks afoot in the city. The war was over and everyone rejoiced. The revelries had been going on for months, and I, for one, did not complain about the euphoria. Our people needed it, after those long years of enduring and withering under the eastern darkness. The current joy had been dearly bought. I sighed.

“Elrohir.” 

The sound of my name pronounced in that rich, low baritone of my lover never failed to set my spirits soaring. With an insane grin that only the truly besotted can claim to have experienced, I turned to face Lindir. 

He was seated beside me, his fingers marking the page of the book he had been reading silently. Those hazel eyes held understanding and compassion as they regarded me. 

I raked a hand through my hair and fidgeted. It was not in my nature to confide my fears in another. But my lover was even more reticent and I knew I would have to be the first to open my heart. Our relationship was a slowly developing phenomenon and I wanted to do all that I could to advance the pace. When I confided my thoughts, he usually felt honour bound to reciprocate. It was a low ploy. I did not mind that as long as I reached my end.

So I said slowly, “I wish my grandmother had stayed to watch these revelries. She would have been comforted that her sacrifices did not go in vain.”

“Galadriel needed to sail.” He set his book and focused his attention entirely upon me, a fact that did not fail to warm my blood.

“I know,” I said quietly. “But I wish she hadn’t. I miss her. I miss them all.”

Lindir did not reply. A blue butterfly came along, coyly flirting with the blades of grass as it played hide and seek with its mate. My lover’s eyes followed the courting dance of the butterflies, a small smile playing on his lips. 

“Pretty, aren’t they?” I remarked.

He reverted his gaze to me and stared thoughtfully, his eyes clouded in indecision. I waited, trying not to betray my fear that he might back out at the last instant. But his hazel eyes cleared and he began to speak.

“When I was a child I used to think that all butterflies were female.” 

A wry self-mocking smile adorned his lips. I chuckled and nudged his thigh, silently asking him to continue. This was important. He was finally overcoming his reticence to open up to me. My heart swelled in fierce joy. I would have us both know perfect happiness before long. His fingers tentatively came to hover over mine. I closed the gap and loosely clasped them. He took a shaky breath.

“Why did young Lindir think so?” I perfectly imitated Glorfindel’s sing-song voice. 

Lindir shot me a grateful look before saying, “They were so pretty, the butterflies. I simply could not imagine them as males.”

My chuckling turned into ear-splitting laughter, more so when I saw the haughty, offended expression on his visage. Earlier, he would have been hurt by good-natured ribbing. Not now. He had changed. So had I.

“I remember that you always called Gildor’s he-falcon as ‘old girl Ri’.” His retort was quite apt. 

I winced and defended myself, “But it is more forgivable than assuming no males exist in a species!” 

“Far be it from me to argue with you,” he drawled, picking up his book again.

“Do you like butterflies?” I asked him quickly, not at all inclined to end the smooth conversation we had entered into.

“I used to like them,” he replied.

He had already found the page he had left off at, and his eyes started perusing the lines. I grabbed his arm and hastily let go when he shot a panicked glare. 

“Why did you stop liking them?” 

“You used to love the snow. Why did you stop liking it?” 

I flinched and stared open-mouthed at his unusual cruelty. He seemed to realize it, for his fingers came to cup his mouth and regret stormed his eyes.

“I am sorry,” he breathed, imploring forgiveness and understanding. 

I shook my head. I had gone too far to back out. 

“I hate the snow because it reminds me of my mother’s ill-fated journey across the Hithalegir. Now tell me, why do you dislike butterflies?”

He sighed before bending to pick grass shoots from the ground. “I was a young lad chasing butterflies on the cornfields. Finwë died. There was darkness.” His voice turned low and hoarse; unleavened by emotion. But he continued, his bravery shining through the sorrow. “I was scared of the dark. The silken wings of those butterflies brushed my skin. That frightened me like nothing else.”

When his eyes met mine, I saw that they were brimming with unshed tears. I forgot my resolve not to press him. I forgot all about his need for distance. All I knew was that he was sad and I needed to end his sadness. I could not bear those eyes holding the least shadow of unhappiness. He deserved to be nothing but happy. 

I leant in and kissed his cheek. It was clumsy and chaste. I did not have much experience with this wooing business, after all. 

“Elrohir,” he whispered, trembling fingers coming to rest on my shoulder. “Thank you.”

I nodded and moved away from his personal space. He composed himself and rose to his feet.

“So eager to return to the house?” I asked, aghast at the very idea.

His eyes twinkled and he said, “No. I wished to see the poppy fields. It is near harvest, isn’t it? The sight must be glorious.”

“I am coming along.” 

“I wouldn’t have it otherwise,” he said simply. 

We were deepening our relationship by small leaps and bounds. We would reach the pinnacle one day. 

 

Little birds chirping sweetly as they went about their nestmaking, squirrels darting across the forest ground and up the trees as they hoarded provisions for the winter and those wild geese giving mating calls as they settled in the lake after their migration from the east; the walk was yet another memory I would treasure. 

Lindir would often point out a bird or a flower to me, and lapse into his old role as tutor as he explained its attributes. The uneasiness between us following the emotional scene we had earlier dissipated in the wake of our lively discussion about the flora and fauna of these woods. 

 

“Here we are!” I exclaimed, as we reached the fringes of the woods. 

Lindir gasped in awe. I echoed his reaction as I took in the sight before us.

The field was ready to be harvested. A red spread of dancing poppy flowers greeted us brightly, their heads swaying in the wind. When we walked along the ridge between two farms, our limbs brushed the plants and a thousand butterflies soared high from the red and green depths. The many hues of their silken wings shone in the bright midday sun and their dancing was in tandem with the swaying flowers.

A hand gripped mine nervously and I turned to find Lindir uneasy and upset. A butterfly was brushing his cheek and I could see the memories darken his gaze.

“Close your eyes,” I whispered.

He looked at me hesitantly. 

I closed my eyes and said, “Please close your eyes.”

The nervousness in his grip turned to relaxed trust and then to wonder. I sensed his happiness and relief as he fought off the dark, ugly alleyways of the past.

Silken wings caressed my skin and the sun played its warmth on me. Lindir’s hair tickled my neck as it flew in the wind. When butterflies came to graze my neck, I smiled, imagining my lover’s lips there. Wings caressed my ears and then my forehead. I lost myself to that idyllic fantasy. When heated air tickled my nose, my eyes shot open and I found myself staring into the hazel depths I knew so well.

“Lind-” 

My voice failed utterly when lips softer than any butterfly’s wings caressed my jaw. I sighed and brought my hands to his shoulders. When he looped his arms tentatively about my frame to draw me closer, I whooped in joy and crushed him against me.

“You staged it,” he teased me.

“I wish I had!” I retorted. “Oh, can we really --”

“Hush,” he whispered, coming to kiss my forehead chastely. 

Then he rested his head on my shoulder. I did not break the silence, for too precious it was. How long had I waited, denying myself the need to hold him thus? Here we were, and he was finally ready to emerge from the bitterness of his past.

When he turned his face by that particular angle so that our lips near met, I knew that it was time. Slowly, gently, with infinite tenderness and care, I brought my lips to his. 

There, in the field of a thousand poppies, standing underneath the sun-kissed skies, taunted coyly by the gentle breeze and caressed by silken wings, we embarked on our ultimate journey to happiness.


End file.
